When Feathers Fall
by Mir
Summary: Camerlengo-focused, alternate ending to the movie "Angels and Demons" in which the Illuminati are indeed the true enemy and McKenna must work with Langdon and Vittoria Vetra to protect the Church's reputation and bring the Pope's murderers to justice.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: When Feathers Fall

**Author**: Mir

Disclaimer: The book and film _Angles and Demons_, its characters, and its plot belong to Dan Brown, Columbia Pictures, and all those involved in the film's production.

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**Author's note: **This is a movie-based non-canon fic in which the mayhem that ensues throughout the plotline is not caused by Camerlengo Patrick McKenna, and he is not really the mastermind behind the attacks on the cardinals and Vatican City (though perhaps still as anti-scientific progress as the film version of his character is shown to be). Yes, I've read the book, but Camerlengo Carlo Ventresca is more definitively a malicious, scheming character – the film's Patrick McKenna leaves more room for plausible deniability. Unfortunately, in neither version is the character a cardinal (as would be more real-world accurate since the office of Camerlengo is always occupied by a cardinal), but I guess that would have thrown a wrench in Brown's overall plot… Anyhow, this fic picks up toward the end of the film and branches off from there.

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**Chapter 1**

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"It's cold down here, isn't it?"

"What's wrong?"

"We may have less than five minutes."

"So?"

"If I pull the power with less than five minutes, the residual charge won't hold suspension. We should leave it here and get clear if we can. At least down here, the danger—"

"—No!" At the scientist's words, any reservations, vestiges of hesitation were burned from his mind like a spark of flame searing the ground bare. His hands shot forward to grab glowing tube, then he was nothing but a flutter of black robes disappearing around the corner before even the Swiss Guard could scramble in pursuit. But as the rhythmic beat of shoes against the stone fell into step behind him, there was just one thought on his mind – get to the helicopter.

The nave of the Basilica – that dark, cavernous space endowed with the solemn dignity of centuries of ceremony – seemed endlessly long even as he knew each step propelled him closer to the open sky. But when he finally emerged into the chaos of St. Peter's Square, the harsh glare of TV floodlights and swaying of the teeming crowds almost forced him back into that safe anonymity of darkness. As his resolve began to falter, it was the Swiss Guard at his heels that forced him onward – and inertia carried the men forward down the stairs as quickly as the police could clear a path. And as the masses surged forward in their wake to close off the escape route behind them, there was no choice but to go rush toward that inevitable premeditated deed. Perhaps heroic, perhaps foolish, perhaps divine, perhaps insane.

The bird was perched atop the stones, its propellers slicing through the sky and drowning out the voices of adorers and dissenters alike. Reporters hunched tenaciously over their microphones and shouted updates in broken bits of languages from every continent. Then like a drop of water creating ripples across a pond, suddenly everyone began to whisper "la bomba," – _the bomb_.

"Roberto, this is an emergency. I'll take her up alone."

For the pilot, it was automatic. A glance into the Camerlengo's eyes, at the cylinder clutched in his hands, and before anyone could question the switch, the helicopter was hovering above the ground as its proper pilot stumbled back against the circled spectators. Dust and debris were thrown up from the stones, and above the commotion someone shouted in response to an unheard question, "Yes, he's got clearance."

From inside the cabin, as the faces below began to blur into a rippling sea of color carpeting the square from end to end, despite the deafening roar of the helicopter's blades, all he could hear was the pounding of his heart racing uncontrollably beneath the mark burned ineligibly into his chest. As if on autopilot, his hands reached for the familiar controls and forced the aircraft upward as quickly as physics would allow. Beside him, the antimatter tumbled over itself inside the glass – an enthralling cosmic dance that spelled nothing but death and destruction. The battery's third power bar winked out as the ground fell away, leaving only two red lines between safety and oblivion. He closed as eyes as time stalled, and each heartbeat felt like an eternity and an instant. Two bars faded into one, and still he climbed higher.

_Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit…_ But where he should have felt calm and resolute, conflict gripped his heart and shrouded his words in doubt. Did Christ feel so ill at ease in those final moments upon the cross? He exhaled slowly, feeling the air escape his lungs, then held his breath until instinct forced him to inhale again. And somehow, inexplicably, except perhaps through the workings of the divine, he knew – was sure beyond doubt – that this wasn't his proper time. _Whatever I may be needed for, lend me the strength to see your will be done… _He could never explain how, in the battery's final moments he managed to find the parachute, fasten the harness, and jump clear of the ascending bird. All he could say for sure was that when the explosion tossed him through the swirling night head-over-heels like a leaf in a storm, St. Peter's Square was a glowing beacon beneath his feet, a welcome harbor calling him home.

The first shockwave tore through the atmosphere in a blinding flash of white and orange – flames that engulfed the stars, burned away the clouds, and scattered the helicopter into cascading bits of smoldering shrapnel. But as the energy released seem inexplicably to collapse back into itself, it was the second explosion that tossed him adrift like flotsam in the fiercest of storms. For if the first blast signified the power of destruction, the second that surged forth a mere heartbeat later spoke of the antithesis – creation. _Let light shine out of darkness…_

He closed his eyes against the turbulence and let the air carry him down toward an inescapable reality of questioning and doubts. Despite long-held convictions and the shreds of denial he clung to like a buoy in the sea, he wondered, in a way that had seemed impossible just hours before, whether science could simply be just another expression of God's will… But before the thought could take root in his mind, the earth rose up to swallow him, and he slammed hard against the Basilica's roof, bouncing roughly along its tiled edge before slipping limply down into the square below.

The stones beneath his back were firm, unmoving. And the pressure of air heavy with smoke and sweat forced him back into awareness. Hands, unwelcome in their intrusion, pulled at his clothes and the clasps that tethered him to the parachute's deflated remains. Hesitantly he pried his eyes open and squinted into the blurry haze of bystanders. Pools of color coalesced into expressions of relief that floated everywhere around him as the harness fell away at last. Strangers immediately supported his back and shoulders as he struggled up from the ground until suddenly the police were also at his side, bearing his weight and elbowing the crowds away.

They staggered out into the square – emerging from between the pillars into a dazzling extravagance of flashing cameras and bright-eyes admirers. Those within reach sought to touch his shoulders, back, head as he passed by, while those farther away jostled for positions and raised their cell phones high above their heads to record the scene in grainy, low-definition clips. Though few, if any, knew the identity of the man before them, all had witnessed his dramatic return, and whispered rumors quickly spread among pilgrims and journalists alike.

With each step down, adrenalin gave way to exhaustion, and the ring of pushing spectators seemed to constrict more tightly around him. He paused, wavering uncertainly on his feet, and would have stumbled without the strong arm around his waist and firm grip anchoring his arm across another's shoulders. The world swam in and out of focus before him, a fluid kaleidoscope of people-like shapes shouting words he only half-heard. Then two more steps, and suddenly there was a car blocking the path, a dark-windowed police vehicle whose open door promised the sanctuary of privacy within.

"Please, Signore." He hardly heard the solicitation, but the accompanying gesture was clear, and as the door closed behind him, the car began to inch forward through the crowds as through its wheels had sunk in tar. Camerlengo Patrick McKenna leaned heavily against the glass, eyes closed, one arm pressed against the pain in his chest.

"Father, you shouldn't sleep yet." The front seat passenger leaned into the center of the car to place a hand gently on his knee. It was a member of the Swiss Guard, a dark-suited shadow with a worried expression and heavily-accented English. And the other sighed, knowing without being told that he likely had a concussion and that there might still be danger afoot out on the street. The driver glanced back through the rear view mirror and offered a silent smile of reassurance. And as the car finally broke free of human obstacles, the noise of the square faded behind them until it dissolved into the low rumble of the car's engine.

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**End note**: I've sketched out a relatively short plotline, perhaps half a dozen parts. My track record for actually finishing stories has been abysmal lately, but we'll see how this goes. This seeks to finish the book's plot in a way that I think would make sense – presuming an independent Illuminati threat (i.e. not Camerlengo or Richter). Think of it as an attempt to tie up loose ends and redeem McKenna in a way different from the book or the film.

[2010.06.12]


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: When Feathers Fall

**Author**: Mir

**Author's note**: Here's where the story beings to diverge noticeably from the actual movie screenplay (or from Dan Brown's book, for that matter too). I'd meant to reveal the entirety of the plot twists leading up to the branding scene by the end of this part, but… _the best laid plans of mice and men_…

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**Chapter 2**

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"We're here." He jumped as fingers tapped against the glass beside his head—seconds or minutes later, he'd lost track of the time. A cursory glance out into the night revealed the white façade of the Domus Sanctae Marthae where the cardinals, in suitably-austere conditions, are lodged during conclave and kept secluded from the media and the outside world. Though it was hardly a stone's throw away from the Basilica itself, there was little chance the throngs of reporters would find him here.

The Daughters of Charity had already converted sections of the ground floor into an impromptu triage center and were treating members of the Vatican staff with minor injuries. The building appeared mostly unscathed by the explosion—a modern concrete fortress built on the foundations of the old St. Martha Hospice. "Padre…" The voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he glanced up through the car's open door at the pale face of a woman who was perhaps familiar, perhaps not. "…this way, please. Just a little further, can you make it?"

Some time later he nodded vaguely at the doctor, called most likely from some other task, who appeared in the doorway of the small, cluttered office where the sister had left him. The chair he occupied seemed recently vacated, and the desk was half-buried beneath discarded books and the scattered contents of an open first aid kit. The doctor lingered for a moment, a silhouette in the door frame, and the irregular rhythm of distant voices and hurried footsteps filled the Camerlengo's ears and pulled his mind from one half-finished thought to the next.

"You've had quite a night, Signore," he commented as he reached back to push the heavy door closed behind him. At the act, innocent enough perhaps, a shiver of suspicion tickled down the priest's back. The floor lamp beside him cast long shadows across the doctor's features and bathed the walls in artificial twilight. He was a slight man with thin, graying hair and small square glasses crammed awkwardly on his nose.

"And you as well, I'd imagine." His gaze traced the doctor's movements as he hurriedly closed the distance between them, his footsteps nothing but the soft crush of shoes into carpet. And the doctor, perhaps sensing the other's trepidation, attempted a reassuring smile as he crouched down on one knee beside his patient's chair.

"I'll just check you over here, and then you can spend the night in one of the rooms upstairs," the doctor murmured as his fingers dipped into the leather bag deposited at his feet. "Tomorrow will be a new day…" And then, almost inexplicably, as his voice faded into silence, the hand that reached out to brush against his patient's arm and the sharp eyes that took in the other's hunched shoulders and disheveled clothes weren't the concerned ministrations of a medical professional but something far more sinister.

"Doctor, actually… I don't think—" the Camerlengo stammered as his gaze darted from the closed door back to the man before him, and he knew as sure as night and day that he had no other choice but the one so easily within his grasp. _Father, forgive me, again…_ There was no space for hesitation as he drew once more on the military training of his youth. Before the doctor could complete his task, he pushed firmly against the back of his head bent low over the bag, his other hand pinning the doctor's arm firmly behind him as he fell heavily onto the ground face-forward. A heartbeat more, and a loaded syringe was pried from sweaty fingers. It took just a few more seconds of maneuvering in the tight space beside the desk before he was able to just barely gain enough leverage to choke his attacker out, but though exhausted and in pain, the advantage in weight and muscle memory of prior training eventually prevailed.

And as the unexpected cascade of events sent his thoughts once more spiraling into disarray, he leaned over the man sprawled bonelessly on the floor before him and pressed two shaking fingers beneath his jaw. The pulse was strong, steady – a reassuring thump, thump in contrast to the erratic racing within his own chest. But as the clocks continued to tick away the seconds of early morning, there was no denying the gravity of situation.

It took almost more effort than he could manage to stand, and as he leaned heavily against the desk, palms pressed flat against its worn surface for support and breath coming in short gasps, he stared down at the unconscious 'doctor' with trepidation. If the enemies, the Illuminati or whomever, could penetrate even here, then nowhere, it seemed, even now was safe.

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The room was half-dark, a single lamp on the far side casting an eerie glow beneath the bookshelves. On the wall, pictures and shields had been knocked askew, and shattered glass crunched underfoot like a carpet of frozen snow. Beyond the office's glass walls, members of the Swiss Guard and Vatican Police hurried back and forth, weaving nimbly in and around the racks of weaponry as they looked after their own injured and attempted to secure the City. But in the stillness of Commander Richter's office, it was as though time had stopped within its walls.

Robert Langdon stared impassively at the disorder, then tipped a chair forward and watched as the shards of glass on its seat fell tinkling to the floor. He sat down heavily as jet lag and the night's frantic pace seemed to catch up with him at last. But for Dr. Vetra - his companion, partner in investigation, at least for the night - the office represented more than just a quiet sanctuary.

"What are you doing?"

She headed straight for the desk and cleared its top with a brisk sweep of her hand, eyes scanning the bare surface with determination. "Silvano's journals… I want them back." Her hands skimmed along the top and sides, searching methodically for a way inside. And then, when it seemed perhaps that the puzzle had bested her, she leaned forward against the top in frustration, and her weight finally triggered the panel's release. With a soft hum of machinery, it slid smoothly aside to reveal a large compartment – a storage area disguised from casual eyes yet easy to access and not particularly secure. The journals were stashed within easy reach, and she wasted no time in retrieving them.

But as she turned and walk away, her task accomplished, it was the second whirl of moving parts that caught Langdon's ear, and the appearance of a flat screen mounted within the cavity that caught his eye. "Richter said His Holiness suffered from seizures, and that steps were taken… for safety…" They'd changed places, and as he stood behind the desk, looking over at Vittoria as he voiced his thoughts aloud, he reached into his pocket to retrieve the golden key offered by Richter as he lay dying on the carpet. "…made sure He was watched, he said…" It was an odd-shaped key, short and flat with teeth on both sides and an ornate handle more suited for fine cabinetry than twenty-first century electronics.

It slid without resistance into the base of the screen, and as Langdon twisted it clockwise, the monitor lit into four active quadrants, showing four angles of a room now well-familiar to them.

"That's the Papal office," Vittoria commented, now beside him again and staring down at the monitor.

"If the Pope was worried about seizures, he must have had Richter install cameras without telling anyone… to keep an eye on him, for safety." They watched for a moment as Vatican police on hands and knees went about their grim forensic tasks. "Maybe it records." And with the simple touch of a button, the scene slid back in time, opening a window into the past, a visual diary of secrets yet undisclosed.

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At less than half an hour to midnight he knelt on the hearth before the orange flames, eyes closed, rosary beads clutched beneath his chin. The warmth of the fire should have drawn sweat to his brow and color to his cheeks, but they were cool and pale, as he waited, resigned.

Behind him, the door opened, and footsteps signaled an intruder's approach, but he neither moved nor looked up at the arrival. "Have you come to make me a martyr?" On the ground before him, buried deep into the fire's ashes was a metal pole, one he'd found waiting for him when he returned to the empty Papal Office not too many minutes earlier. It was an ominous weapon, a specialized tool whose only purpose – branding flesh – held particular portent given the night's earlier casualties and the threat of anti-matter annihilation still hanging overhead. But at the eleventh hour, he'd given in, too exhausted physically and mentally to continue fighting against the inevitable. So he waited with stoic patience for deliverance and prepared to embrace the role he'd been asked to play.

And unseen, Richter smirked at the scene before him, almost amused at the younger man's apparent willingness to give his life away. Selflessness, some might say, though others would call it the folly of blind devotion. And as the Camerlengo finally glanced over to see who had arrived, with an unvoiced sigh of frustration, Richter jammed the door's bolt down into the floor with the heel of his shoe.

"I read the journals, Patrick."

"The scientist kept journals… so?" He rose, letting his hands fall to his sides and turning away from the hearth, annoyed at the Comandante's intrusion – These minutes, if they were to be his last, would be better spent in prayer than arguing with Richter over matters of dead scientists.

"Well, you figure prominently in them. Bentivoglio wasn't just a physicist; he was also a Catholic priest. As such, he was deeply conflicted about the implications of his work and the need for spiritual guidance… like Galileo." The two lingered like ghosts before the windows, each man's eyes haunted as they stared back at each other across some unbridgeable divide. "About a month ago, he requested an audience with the Pope, but you know that. Because you granted the audience, and you were also present during it—" It was Richter who finally stepped forward, towering over the Camerlengo as the other turned on his heels in protest.

"—The _God Particle_… To actually claim an action of creation… the blasphemy, the arrogance." He bristled and pulled away from Richter as if slapped.

"The Holy Father didn't see it like that." He spoke to McKenna's retreating back, his tone stern and unyielding. "He urged him to go public. His Holiness thought the discovery might actually scientifically prove the existence of a Divine power… to begin to bridge the gap between science and religion." They met again before the fire, the light dancing fiercely in their eyes.

"His work was not religious. It was sacrilegious!" He hardly knew where the anger swelled from that fueled the impatient dismissal and biting condemnation of Richter's words.

"But you, you saw the Pope's position as a softening of Church law, as an old man's weakness, your Father's weakness…" It was as if he wanted to say more, to continue his string of accusations, but just as he leaned forward to deliver another verbal blow, Richter abruptly pulled away and withdrew with an almost pensive air, back across the empty room until he paused before the windows and gazed down at the illuminated scene below. "I believe His Holiness was right, and I believe that one day you'll come to see the see his view as well."

McKenna remained silent, crouched again before the fire, only truly half-listening.

"Or at least that's what the journals document. The Holy Father believed in you, even told Bentivoglio when they were alone that one day you'd look upon the results of his scientific work free from prejudice or distain." He paused, as though unsure of whether to continue. Meanwhile, the sounds of crowds in the square floated upward on the late night breeze that tugged at the curtains and teased at the flames. "He instructed Bentivoglio to note that he'd named you a cardinal _in pectore_ and intended for you one day to be his Secretary of State."

Neither spoke as the moments stretched on, each consumed in his own thoughts as a sense of calm settled between them. An uneasy truce perhaps, or simply a break in the storm.

… … … … … … … … … … … …

"…_in pectore_?" Langdon's hand hovered over the monitor's controls, his question more rhetorical than doubting.

"It would make sense…" Vittoria pointed down at the frozen image, her nails tapping lightly against the screen. "…that he is actually a cardinal. Although the office of Camerlengo is largely ceremonial—"

"—Its holder has always been a cardinal." His eyes drifted over to the journals, now stashed safely away in Vittoria's bag. "Only Silvano knew, and then Richter…"

"…but it expired with the Pope's death." She glanced at Langdon who seemed still lost in thought, pondering the new data as though trying to fit the pieces together in his mind. She brushed his hand aside to reactivate the screen's playback. "There's more," she prompted, pointing down at the two figures still alone in the room. "We should finish watching."

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**End note**: I took some license in the Papal office scene to show more of what was playing out in the characters' heads than Robert Langdon and Vittoria Vetra would have seen just through the security camera's footage, but there really wasn't any other way to explain (by literary means) the nuances of my divergence from the story's canon plotline. You'll see the rest in part three…

Also, there's meant to be a marked different in McKenna's actions at the start of the chapter (directly after the helicopter scene) and the flashback/video scene. It's a sort of super-condensed bildungsroman.

[2010.06.16]


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: When Feathers Fall

**Author**: Mir

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**Chapter 3**

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"I know the truth. It's Father Simeon," he murmured, low voice almost inaudible.

"What?" Commander Richter, still standing at the windows, pivoted sharply at the non-sequitur to stare intently at the back of the Camerlengo's head, a dark silhouette before the hearth.

"I've known for days… traced the evidence." He stretched a hand out toward the fire gingerly as though reaching to grasp something, then pulled it back, half-turning to face Richter. "He's the one on the inside, the enabler… _Illuminatus_."

"But that's preposterous. Impossible." The commander shook his head vehemently as he circled around the table toward the hearth, challenge in his footsteps and denial in his eyes. "He's been Cardinal Strauss's aide for years—"

"—and intimately familiar with the workings of the Vatican." McKenna paused, ignoring the other's approach as though he were nothing more than a ghost behind his shoulder. "And has had special access ever since Strauss was appointed Dean of the College of Cardinals…"

"Are you implying—"

"No, Sir. Not Cardinal Strauss. His heart is true." He glanced up as though suddenly aware of the Comandante's close proximity. "But Father Simeon was perhaps corruptible, pliable… could have been convinced to play his part…" His voice trailed off as he reached again toward the hearth. "He would have been promised personal gain."

"And you've suspected this and told no one?" Richter was both incredulous and exasperated.

"My Father raised me to protect the Church, even from within," the Camerlengo replied with conviction. "If news were to spread that the Holy Father was murdered by a Vatican priest, a Cardinal's trusted aide…" He held Richter's gaze, eyes pleading for understanding. "We're a fractured and frantic species, tumbling down the path of destruction in the name of progress." At the other's silence, he continued, "Nothing unites hearts like the presence of evil. The Illuminati must be stopped, but they must also be held responsible."

And with a nervous sigh he gestured toward the fire. "He must have left this in the office while I was out." His fingers brushed the carpet beside the metal handle – the brand still buried deep in ashes. "It must have been him. No one else could have gained entrance past your guards." As he spoke, his fingertips brushed back and forth along the handle's grooved worn as though testing the blade of a knife for sharpness. "But then you arrived and locked the door, disrupted the sequence of events…" His tone was half-wistful, half-accusing. "The anti-matter must be found, and the Illuminati…"

Richter stared at the Camerlengo, confusion written across his features as his mind raced to grasp the implications behind his words. And as realization began to seep into his consciousness, a shiver of dread traveled down his spine.

But, finally tossing indecision aside, McKenna snatched the metal handle from the flames, surging to his feet as he tore at his collar flung it to the ground. "The Church is at a crossroads, and the congregations must be united. We're weak when we should be strong…" The long-handled metal brand glowed white and orange in the air before him, and he stared at the crossed keys in wonder – For it was his first glimpse of the full device.

At the sight of the glowing metal, Richter reached automatically for his sidearm, years of training guiding his hands as he stared grimly at the scene before him. "Put that down."

"Father Simeon meant to corner me here alone." His free hand tugged at his cassock until it fell away aside his chest was bare. "I was sure it was him returning…" He brandished the brand like a sword between them, and the metal, glowing and smoking, shook as he readjusted his outstretched grip and struggled to keep it aloft. "… but it was you, and I was both relieved and disappointed. But perhaps it's better this way."

Richter held the firearm before him, arms locked out but muzzle still aimed carefully at the floor between thm. "You don't have to do this, Patrick. Put it down."

"He's sinned enough..." His voice was soft, pitying almost, but backed by an air of unyielding determination. "…but the deed _must_ be completed. The Illuminati must be exposed and held responsible for their murders."

"Put it away."

But the words were wasted, for as Richter watched on, frozen in his horror, McKenna turned the brand inward on himself, and with no more than a quick downward glance to ensure its placement, rammed the metal onto chest. He groaned involuntarily at the contact, collapsing in upon himself as though punched violently in the gut. With his eyes squeezed tight against the pain, he stumbled to his knees, screaming out as the flesh beneath the brand blackened. And as Richter began to shout, his gun still outstretched, McKenna finally flung the brand away from him, handle-first into the carpet at Richter's feet. He toppled backward over his heels onto his back, only barely catching himself from sliding into the hearth.

Then, before either man could move farther, the pounding against the office's wooden doors intensified, and as the lock gave way, the Swiss Guard bust into the room with weapons drawn, a blur of black and blue with Langton, Vetra, and Father Simeon on their heels.

"He has a gun…" the Camerlengo warned, one hand pointing shakily toward the handgun still aimed in his direction. But the Guards, misreading the situation, immediately fired, bringing Richter crashing down to the floor beside him.

And Father Simeon, taking advantage of the opportunity, surged into the fray, snatched the discarded brand from the ground, and lofted it above his head like a bat as he charged at McKenna's sprawled form. "You bastard. You sanctimonious—"

"Illuminatus!" The Camerlengo couldn't have moved if he'd wanted to. Pinned to the floor by the pain in his chest and aghast at Richter's unexpected fall, he watched as the metal descended toward him like a wave crashing inevitably onto the beach, locked in Father Simeon's crazed eyes as surely as if he were chained to the spot. But before the brand could once again dig into his skin, three shots rang out, and the priest folded face-first onto the carpet with an ungraceful thump. The brand landed beside him, and for a brief moment, the only sounds filling the room were the harsh breathing of its half-dozen occupants and the impartial crackling of the fire before them.

"Padre…"

"Order the evacuation—We only have nineteen minutes…" The two Swiss Guards supported McKenna as he half-staggered, half-fell into a nearby chair, groaning and gingerly inspecting the damage he'd wrought upon himself. "…and get the helicopter for the older cardinals…"

… … … … … … … … … … … …

They continued to stare in amazement at the scene they'd already lived as their own figures moved around the room and the black-suited Swiss Guard fluttered anxiously around McKenna as the two still figures bled out on the ground. Removed now from the threat of immediate peril, each character's words and actions began to take on more meaning, more depth in that nuanced, intertwined dance that they played.

"The anti-matter was in St. Peter's tomb. He knew… somehow he realized, but how?" Vittoria ran a hand through her hair and down the back of her neck as she contemplated the question rhetorically. She glanced sidewise at the professor, searching for an explanation.

… … … … … … … … … … … …

"Robert, the brand, the symbol, could it have another meaning?" She turned toward Langdon intently, her urgent tone drawing him up from the carpet where he'd crouched beside the sputtering Commander Richter. And with a brief glance at the Camerlengo, he snatched the cooling brand from the floor and held it up as though to compare it with the image already imprinted on the man before hm.

"Crossed keys, but those are upside down," he remarked. It was more of an observation than an answer to the scientist's question. For it was indeed the same fifth brand they'd discovered in the Castel Sant'Angelo, the keys of the Papal insignia. _Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church... And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven…_

"St. Peter," the Camerlengo murmured.

"The first Pope…" And Langdon nodded, his expression one of understanding. "…was crucified upside down—"

"—on Vatican Hill…"

"…a few hundred feet below us…"

… … … … … … … … … … … …

_Yes he knew, but his sudden realization of the anti-matter's location seemed genuine._ She puzzled over the footage, trying to read between the lines in a way impossible through the monitor's flat images. "If what he says is true, then he knew about Father Simeon before we even arrived, but did he know where the anti-matter was located… before the branding?" she asked, half to herself and half to the professor.

"Perhaps, but I doubt it. He seemed… sincere." The scene continued to play out through the end of their conversation and their hasty exit as they departed again to descent down into the crypt. "There must be others too—besides Father Simeon and the man in the Castel Sant'Angelo." He'd paused the video feed again and was staring pensively out through the office's glass walls into the corridor beyond. "Because if you think of all the moving parts…"

But before he could finish the thought, the quiet buzz of an electric ringer resonated through the office. Their eyes darted around the room, searching for the source of the unexpected noise – a gentle vibration-like sound emanating from somewhere around Richter's desk. They spotted the white telephone mounted to the wall at almost the same time, but after a moment's hesitation, it was Langton who reached out a hand and answered it.

"Yes, hello? _Pronto? _"

"Professor Langdon? Dr. Vetra? Ah, thank goodness you're all right. That's certainly a relief." The voice on the other end sounded slightly surprised but not apparently perturbed to have found the Comandante's office occupied by the Vatican's two overseas guests. It was unmistakably the Camerlengo. "I…" But he paused, as though unsure of what to say or how to say it, and the only noise from the phone's speaker was his soft exhalations, rapid but muted perhaps by a hand placed over the receiver.

"Are you okay? Where are you?—" It was Vittoria on her feet beside him who located the machine's speaker phone button. _It's odd for him to have called Richter's office, _she thought, especially when they all knew that the commander was…

"—Please, I know we're all exhausted, but you'll have to act quickly. The Vatican may still be in danger." His characteristically gentle tone was laced with urgency, a sharp edge that left no room for argument. "You'll need a car…"

It was a tumble of words and instructions, and Langdron scrambled to snatch a pen and paper from Richter's desk behind him.

"…there's one in the garages just beyond the exit to your left once you leave the Comandante's office. It's a black sedan and should still be unlocked. The key is under the visor on the driver's side. I'm at the Domus Sanctae Marthae… _St. Martha's House_. There should be a map on the wall of the office… It's the large H-shaped white building south of the Basillica. I'll meet you at the side entrance. It's the one with the—"

He would have kept speaking had Langdon not interrupted. "—But the security outside. We'll never get a car past…" After the earlier explosion, the Vatican crawling was with both regular police and Swiss Guards.

"They know the car and will let it through without questions… I'll meet you at the west entrance in ten minutes. It's the solid wooden door, the one with two sconces."

Before he could respond the line went dead in Langdon's hand, and as he and Vittoria stood staring at each other in the dim light of the office, they knew that despite the minimalist instructions and the scenes they'd witnessed second-hand on Richter's screen, there was nothing to do but head out into the pre-dawn and finish the job they'd been flown in to complete. For until the smoke from the chimney flew white against the sky, the Camerlengo represented the Papacy… and he was still a friend.

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**End note**: I went back and forth on who to implicate (every story needs its villain) – The Illuminati, Commander Richter, Father Simeon, Cardinal Strauss, etc… and finally settled on this less-than-perfect resolution. Perhaps it's an unexpected twist, but the only other alternative  
I could think of was having some kind of ninja pop out of the wall and attack Patrick McKenna while Richter's back was turned (that's why I wrote him as standing facing the windows while McKenna went back toward the fire).

On another note, I would have liked to have reunited the trio in this part, but this seemed like a natural place to call it quits for the night, so they'll come together again in part four.

[2010.06.24]

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	4. Chapter 4

**Title**: When Feathers Fall

**Author**: Mir

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**Author's note: **This chapter sees a shift firmly away from the canon movie script into a plot of my own design – which is perhaps a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it grants more freedom for creativity (not having to fit everything into already authored scenes) but one the other requires more brainpower to create. I puzzled over this chapter for days, but in the end, it almost seemed to write itself… I might do a few tweaks and re-upload in a few days.

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**Chapter 4**

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She spotted him first, a pale face hovering above a dark smudge of an overcoat half-hidden in the doorway. At the car's approach, he hastily turned back in toward the wall and tugged at the coat's broad collar as if to hide his face. Only after a fleeting glance over his shoulder revealed the identity of the vehicle's occupants did he slide sideways into the soft light cast by the sconces overhead. He nodded in greeting as Langdon brought the car to stop.

"He looks horrible." Vittoria Vetra tugged at her seatbelt and leaned forward to get a better viewing angle around Langdon's head. "Do you think he needs help?" But as she began to reach for door handle, McKenna finally pushed himself away from the wall, and with one arm pressed protectively against his midsection, limped across to the car, pulled open the door, and sank heavily into the back seat, closing his eyes with a pained sigh.

"Father –" she began, her eyes taking in his appearance as Langdon likewise studied him through the rearview mirror. But he held up a hand before she could get farther.

"Please, if you will, let's move to a safer location first." He paused for a moment, either in thought or to catch his breath. "Up ahead, take the first left…" The car began to roll forward again. "…then continue right around the next curve, that's it…"

"But you should see a doctor." Vittoria interrupted as the muted glow of streetlamps flickered by the tinted windows.

"Yes, perhaps," was the offhand dismissal. "In due time." As the dark outlines of trees loomed ahead, he gave the order to turn left again, and they found themselves in the mostly-deserted parking lot below a multi-storied squarish building, an administrative-type structure by the look of it. It was only when they glanced upward did they notice the large satellite dishes and medium-wave radio transmitter pointing skyward. _Vatican Radio_.

"They'll have a skeleton staff on duty tonight," he continued, pointing to an empty patch of pavement sheltered beneath the trees. "We'll enter through the back…" A row of lights from second floor windows shone bright against the night sky, but the rest of the building appeared dark and empty.

Langdon pulled into the indicated spot but let the engine idle as he turned to confront McKenna face-to-face. "Richter had a video feed installed in the Papal office…" He paused, watching for any kind of reaction on the other's face cut continued when none seemed forthcoming. "…we watched the footage from tonight."

But if he'd been expecting shock or embarrassment, or even anger, all he received from the Camerlengo was a slight nod of understanding. "It was truly a secret – No one knew of its existence save for His Holiness, the Commandante, and myself." He spoke without moving, his head resting back against the headrest and his eyes half-closed. "Please, we can talk about this later, but for now we need to keep moving, to get inside." He sighed as his two companions seemed to dismiss his sense of urgency with flat expressions and unwavering stares. "There was an attempt on my life… after the explosion in St. Peter's Square. I was at the Domus Sanctae Marthae…" He leaned forward, one arm across his knees as if steeling himself to stand.

"We'll talk inside then." It was Vittoria who replied, taking the decision into her own hands as she stared down Langdon's protests and walked around to the car's back door to offer McKenna a hand. He accepted gratefully, swinging his feet down onto the ground but pausing as though unsure of whether he'd be able to stand. She placed a supporting hand at his back as he gripped the doorframe and willed stiff muscles to cooperate. "But we _will_ talk."

They made their way across the lot to an unassuming side door that swung open at McKenna's touch. He pocketed the key and groped in the dark along the side of the wall until his hand fumbled across the light switch, and the hall filled with light just as any office corridor might. "Come, this way," he urged as the professor's eyes began to wander across the old charts and photographs hung down the length of the hall. And so, with Vetra helping to support his weight, he led them down to a certain office where he half-sat, half-fell into the chair behind the broad wooden desk and immediately began rifling through its drawers in search of…

"Who was it? Was it the Illuminati? How many people are involv—" She stood beside him looking down, and would have continued to press for answers except for a pleading look as McKenna held the two way radio he'd been searching for up to his mouth and placed a finger silently across his lips as he depressed the transmit button.

"_QG, QG…"_  
"_Si, Il quartier generale. Chi parla?"_  
"_Sono Patrizio. Posso parlare con Ten. Chartrand…"  
_

"What's he saying?" Robert mouthed the words at Vittoria, who was standing beside the Camerlengo. She listened for a moment later, then replied:

"It's the Swiss Guards… He's asking for Lieutenant Chartrand… Now he's explaining that he was attacked after the explosion… by a man he thought at first was a doctor. He says he's reached the _lighthouse_ and will shortly illuminate the sky." She paused to catch her breath as McKenna waited for a response from the other end of the line. "Chartrand cautions it might be prudent to wait until morning…"

"But the morning newscast is in a few hours." McKenna, agitated, dropped back into his native English. "Once the staff arrives, we'll lose access. And the people need to hear a message of hope and unity. They need to know that we'll stand strong against the evil forces at work…" His voice trailed off as his finger slipped from the button, and static cracked from the speaker on the other end of radio.

"_They know, Father. They saw you tonight, and they understood. Just stay where you are, and we'll come and get you,"_ said the speaker in Italian. _"Let there be another vote before noon…"_

There was a pause as the transmission ended with a beep, but McKenna stared silently at the device in his hand, unsure of how to reply. With a fleeting glance at first Vittoria, then Langdon, he eventually brought the radio up one more time to his mouth, his thumb gradually depressing the button as though still undecided on how to proceed. "Then send someone if you must, but give us fifteen minutes… You must, for the sake of the lives already lost tonight."

There was a crackle on the radio, a murmur of reluctant agreement, then the Camerlengo turned to both of his companions, and with a look they recognized, said with quiet determination, "We haven't much time."

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It turned out his plan was simple, so simple it might actually work. They would access the building's transmission equipment and send out a message aimed on the one hand to reassure the crowds and on the other, to hopefully lure any Illuminati still in the area into a trap. Even if they weren't listening at the moment of the broadcast, any form of communication from the official Vatican station while the cardinals were still in conclave, was bound to be picked up and rebroadcast by the news channels all gathered in St. Peter's Square. The only question remaining was the actual content of the message.

"Any good symbol is direct, obvious though without seeming so." Naturally, they'd turned to the resident symbologist for assistance. "Take, for example, the wheel – In everyday life you see them everywhere. Cars, bicycles, trains… It's a cornerstone of civilization, an emblem of modern life. And yet in how many cultures does it also have symbolic meaning? The Buddhist _wheel of life_, the native American _medicine wheel_, the Hindu _mandala_… Its meaning changes depending on your viewpoint, on where you stand, and what you're looking for." Langdon, once again in his element, stood in radio station's small auxiliary control room, one hand resting against the switch panel, the other casually at his hip as he launched into what could easily have been the opening of a freshman college lecture.

"Professor, I'm afraid that now is not the time—" McKenna interjected, from where he was seated against the wall.

He held up a hand to stave off the other's interruption, continuing with hardly a break in his verbal stride. "So we tell them that we've uncovered something amazing, something sacred, an artifact of sorts perhaps. That it was somehow revealed in the aftermath of the shockwave. It doesn't matter what it is as long as it's tied to the events of tonight – a sign, if you will, of God's benevolence in sparing everyone gathered in the square…"

"But that's outright lying, it's—" It was Vittoria who voiced the objection.

"—it's PR management, bending the truth, feeding the media…" Langdon countered. "We'll say where it's being kept, ensure that it's a location that seems easily accessible, then wait for the Illuminati to show up. If they're truly still out there, they won't be able to resist attempting to destroy it."

"That's playing with people's minds, with their religion, with our…" Dr. Vetra continued adamantly, on her feet now and approaching Langdon with quick paces across the room's cramped space. They stared intently at each other, caught in a struggle between pragmatism and belief.

"We're running out of time…" McKenna murmured, more to himself than to the others. Forgotten for a moment as he slouched tiredly with his head against the wall, he leveraged himself from the chair and with a few limping steps, managed to reach the main control board. His two companions turned as he steadied himself with both hands against the slanting surface, his eyes closed for several breaths as he gathered his thoughts.

"Patrick…" Vittoria's gaze softened as she reached out to steady him, but he waved her assistance off as he began to reach across the switchboard and activate switches.

"The equipment's already been prepped for the schedule morning newscast. All we need to do is patch ourselves in…"

"…But you can't simply pretend that—" She protested, appalled almost that the Camerlengo, of all people, had apparently agreed to Langdon's plan.

"—I'll say that the restricted Vatican archives sustained minor damage tonight," he continued as though she hadn't spoken, then with a pause, gave Langdon a knowing look. "And a number of volumes, including some of Galileo's original documents, have been temporarily moved to the library of the Pontifical Academy of Sciences for safekeeping." But as he keyed the final switches to power up the equipment, the two-way radio, now sitting back on the chair across the room, crackled, and all three sets of eyes abruptly turned in its direction.

"_Lighthouse, we're here."_ The voice said in static-filled Italian.

For a moment they just stared at it as if unsure of what to do, but as Vittoria, who was closest, reached over to retrieve the handset and began to pass it to McKenna, he shook his head and murmured, "Take it into the hall and tell them we'll only be a minute, please." Confident that she'd comply, he turned to Robert Langdon. "And professor, if you will, look out the windows on this hall and around the corner to see on which side of the building they've parked the car. It will be black like the one you took…"

And oddly enough, they found themselves doing just that – setting out to complete the tasks assigned them. There was something in his voice, despite everything that had already happened that night, a calm rationality to his instructions. It was only as Vittoria closed the door behind her did she even realize that they'd left him with the radio controls alone.

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"…Tonight, as you well know, we came under attack from an old enemy, an enemy that sought to destroy us at our very core. But even the destructive power of science gone astray proved insufficient to break our faith, our resolve, our unity when faced with annihilation. Since its early days, the Church has tried to slow the relentless march of science, sometimes with misguided means, but even then, with benevolent intent. Yet today, the ghosts of the past came back to haunt us – The Illunimati seeking revenge for past transgressions. They call us backward, ignorant. But who is more ignorant? The man who cannot define lightning, or the man who does not respect its awesome power? Science and religion are not enemies, but there are things that science is simply too young to understand." He paused for a moment to catch his breath.

"Together we must stand strong against those who would seek to do us harm. Fortunately, their efforts tonight have failed. For we are still standing shoulder to shoulder, are we not? Some structures, the Vatican archives for example, have received minor damage, but the irreplaceable documents of Galileo, Mozart, Leopardi, and others have been temporarily moved to the library of the Pontifical Academy of Sciences for safekeeping."

"Today, we need to lift the veil of secrecy we've hidden behind in the past and together seek God's guidance on the challenges before us…"

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The stood outside the solid wooden door and listened as he laid the trap with words aimed to both incite and reassure. _Meanings change depending on your viewpoint, on where you stand, and what you're looking for._ But as the Camerlengo's voice trailed off apparently mid-sentence and remained silent for several long seconds, Lagdon reached for the door handle, and with a nod of agreement from Vittoria, swung the door open into the hall.

He'd slumped forward against the control console, his head resting among the lights still flickering with activity, and Langdon quickly cut power to the system, thus ending the transmission. "The car's at the back," he said as he maneuvered to get his shoulder beneath McKenna's arm. "Let's get him outside." And as the priest mumbled something incoherently between them, the three slowly made their way down the hall and out the back door to where a dew-covered black sedan sat glistening in the glow of pre-dawn light.

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**End note**: If it wasn't clear from the start, the views expressed by the characters in this story are not my own. This is fiction written for entertainment value, not commentary on theology. Also, I tried to use some of the verbiage from Patrick McKenna's speech in the movie's conclave scene into his radio address. It's a hard balancing act… I'd like to portray him as not so much _anti-science_ (as he was clearly in the script) but as _pro-Church_.

[2010.07.07]

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End file.
